Things to be Broken
by cruiscin lan
Summary: For the first time Peter was able to see her for what she really was - a toy, a doll, a porcelain doll, shattered and reassembled in a way that hid the cracks except upon close examination, but in a way that left her barely functional. Peter/Elle.
1. Chapter 1

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been fading in and out of consciousness, lying on the cold concrete floor of Level Five. She was a broken thing, bleeding from the wound in her head, her skin cold and clammy as she recovered slowly from her own electrical trauma.

But he wasn't himself then, and he didn't know how to help her. Besides, he was afraid that this would be his only opportunity to get out, to try and make things right - it was more important that he find Nathan, stop his future self, get out of this stranger's body. Even so, it became a relentless regret, leaving her there and taking off with the other escapees.

The next time Peter saw her, he'd just been flung out the window of a building in Fort Lee, New Jersey. How fortunate he'd been that she and Claire had been there to help him, how fortunate that Elle didn't weigh her own needs against his and leave Claire alone to help Peter to safety. She had every right to leave him there, to abandon him, just as he'd done to her. They weren't anyone to each other, after all, but for some reason she stayed. Each woman draped one of his arms across their shoulders, wrapping their own arms around his waist, and helped him hobble back to the taxi they'd taken there from the airport in Newark. He could feel the electricity surging where his skin touched Elle's, but he didn't have the strength to comment or complain.

They found their way back to his apartment in Manhattan, where Claire tended his wounds and Elle stayed back in the shadows, illuminated by the occasional sizzle or spark that made her shudder and scowl. He almost forgot about Elle her entirely as he tried to convince his brother that their father was alive (Nathan and that blonde he brought ended up leaving in a huff), and then as he argued with Claire about the next move to make.

"We need to leave," Claire insisted.

"I'm going alone. I don't need my powers to protect myself."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"You need to stay innocent."

There was a knock on the door, an impatient banging, and Claire was suddenly barking out orders like her father. "Peter, take the fire escape! I'll distract them!"

Most of what followed was a blur - Claire flinging herself out of the window, fleeing into the sewers, realizing (almost too late) that they were after her, not him. After narrowly escaping, Peter convinced Claire that she'd be safer with his mother at Primatech, and together they boarded a Metro-North train to Hartsdale.

Satisfied that she would be safe there, Peter returned to his apartment the next day and was surprised to flickering blue light in the half-darkness; Elle was still there, crouched at his kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee, now cold. "I tried to fix your window," she said blankly, and Peter saw that she had duct-taped a trash bag across the opening to keep out a draft. "But I broke your coffee maker." Peter grimaced as he noticed the scorch mark that spread across the countertop and up the tile backsplash. She hadn't just broken it - she'd pulverized it.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked, his tiredness coming across gruffly.

Elle didn't look up; her eyes were still fixed on the half-empty mug before her. "Where else am I supposed to go? Your mother fired me, you just got thrown out of Pinehearst..."

"Anywhere," Peter interrupted. "You can go anywhere. Nothing's stopping you now."

"Yeah, nothing." A spark sizzled across her torso, the electricity hissing and spitting like a living thing. She clutched the ceramic mug even tighter, lowering her head so that Peter couldn't see her grimace. "I can't control it anymore," she whispered by way of explanation. "I can't eat, I can't sleep. I don't know what's wrong with me. I need help."

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" he told her, his voice flat. "I was nothing more than your toy."

"I don't know how else to treat people." Her tone was so unlike that of the Elle he thought he knew. There was no pretense - no seduction, no hidden intentions, no sarcasm - just sadness and sincerity. "I've never been anything to anybody, except a toy."

For the first time Peter was able to see her for what she really was - a toy, a doll, a porcelain doll, shattered and reassembled in a way that hid the cracks except upon close examination, but in a way that left her barely functional. He could have helped her - he should have helped her - when he had the chance, and the thought of it made his heart ache with remorse. At that moment she became his new mission. He'd already saved the cheerleader, and saved the world; now he was going to save Elle too.

"Your father..."

"Sylar killed him."

"I know. I was there that day, on Level Five. I saw you take him out."

He couldn't see her muddled expression, as her face was half-hidden by shadow, but her confusion was clear in her silence. Peter didn't know how to explain, so instead he moved on. "I'm sorry about your dad, I'm sure he... he would have been proud of you, at that moment."

She laughed a hollow laugh, her voice crackling like paper, and it was the saddest sound he'd ever heard her make. "You didn't know my father at all, if that's what you really believe." She paused, her thought punctuated by another surge of electricity crawling across her torso. She clenched her teeth and sucked in her breath, waiting for the painful feeling to pass. She seized up a moment more, frazzled and fragrant, like a spent firecracker.

Peter didn't need empathic superpowers to understand the subtext of what Elle was saying. He sighed, and said "I know what that can be like."

"You know what what can be like?" she hissed, as though there was electricity inherent in her voice.

"What it can be like to have a father who doesn't believe in you, who doesn't support you. It was like... it is like... like he enjoys being disappointed in you."

Elle choked and coughed, barely stifling a sob.

"You don't really miss him?" She didn't respond, but she didn't need to - her silence and stillness was all the response Peter needed. "You don't need to feel guilty about it. Sometimes the world is just better off without certain people in it. You don't have to live for him anymore - now you can live for yourself. You shouldn't feel bad about it."

"You've already given him all the mourning he deserves. Trust me. You've suffered enough. It's time for you to move on."

He took her hand in his, gritting his teeth at the electricity that shot through his arm. It was all he could do to keep from dropping her hand like a live wire, but he needed to hold on. He needed to do this.

And then, suddenly, it stopped.

"The pain - it's gone," Elle whispered breathlessly. She began laughing again, a genuine laughter this time, one that made her whole body shake. She laughed until she began to cry, and she cried until she placed her forehead against Peter's shoulders and sobbed. Peter leaned back until he found a way for them both to be comfortable, and reached up and stroked her hair. She sobbed until she fell asleep, reclined against him. It was the first time she'd slept in weeks, and, even without knowing that, Peter watched her shoulders rise and fall with each breath for hours.


	2. Chapter 2

He let her stay; it wasn't in his nature to turn away someone in need, even if that someone was imbalanced and unpredictable like Elle was. All the damage she'd done was to his kitchen appliances, and after she fried his second coffee maker and his toaster, he released her from any breakfast-making responsibilities by eating his meals with her.

They were awkward together at first, sitting silently across the table from one another. The only words she heard him speak were on the phone to other people - Bennet, Claire, his mother, his brother - and he'd disappear, sometimes for days at a time, still trying to save the world, while she did her best to maintain his apartment, keeping it tidy and making sure the rent was paid on time.

She found a job that she didn't really need (her father had, after all, left her not only a hefty savings account but also a vast amount of gold) to help pass the time while she waited for Peter to return. She could fold clothes, she could try to talk people into corporate credit cards, and she could appreciate a discount on clothing, since all her belongings were probably in storage at Primatech headquarters, and she had no interest in going back there to reclaim them.

She had just gotten in from work when she found him at the dinette table, brooding and nursing a cold cup of coffee. His face was bleeding; there was a deep gash that extended diagonally from his one eye down to the corner of his mouth. She dropped her bag and her coat and ran to him, moved by worry and pity and a hundred of other human emotions that she hadn't felt since one day in a watch shop when she almost watched another man die.

"Jesus Christ, Peter, what the hell happened to you?" she asked, her voice wavering. Her fingers flew to his face, dabbing at his wound, trying to assess whether it was as bad as it appeared. He winced a little from the pain, but he didn't stop her from going to the sink for a wet rag, blotting away the bloody edges of the gash. "You need to go to a hospital."

"It only looks bad," he told her. "It's not that deep."

"You need stitches."

"It'll heal up on its own."

"Peter, don't be stubborn. If this gets infected or something..."

"Elle, stop, don't," Peter said roughly, grabbing her wrist in his hand and forcing it down to the table. The rag she clutched in her hand left watery red droplets on the table's surface. For a moment he questioned why he let her stay there for so long, why he had even felt bad for her in the first place, but then his eyes caught hers for the first time he could remember. She was hurt and confused, and he could see his face reflected in the tears in her eyes. He was angry and upset about a mission gone wrong and he was taking it out on her.

"I'm just trying to help," she said with a meekness she had only ever used with her father.

He released her arm and turned away, solemn and saturnine. She took the rag back to the sink, rinsing out the blood, and laying it across the faucet to dry.

"Do you have work tomorrow?" he asked.

"I have to be there at eight, before the store opens," she replied, still facing the sink.

"Then don't wait up," Peter told her. He grabbed his coat and dropped his half-empty mug into the sink. "I'm going to the ER."

She waited up anyway. When he returned she threw his arms around him and pressed her face into his chest, her breath shallow and her face warm and wet. She had been crying.

"Elle, it's almost four," Peter said, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her away. He brought his hand to her chin and lifted her face upwards, the moonlight illuminating the tears that lined her face. "What are you doing up still? What is the matter with you?"

"I know, I'm pitiful, right?" she asked, attempting to smile through her sobs. "I just got to thinking what I would do without you, Peter. I don't have anybody, and you've been so kind... What if something happened to you?"

Peter cocked his head as he was suddenly struck by a strange realization. "You were worried about me."

"So maybe I was," Elle replied, spitting the words out at him like a petulant child. "So maybe I was worried. It's because your face looks like someone tried to split your head in half."

"Yeah..." Peter said gravelly as he ran his hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. "That sounds about right."

"I mean - Jesus, Peter - you don't have powers anymore, but that obviously hasn't stopped you from throwing yourself right into the face of danger. For the love of God, Peter, use your head for once for something other than someone else's target practice." Elle paused for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She looked directly into his eyes, her voice cracking. "You're not immortal anymore. You could get killed."

Without another moment of hesitation, Peter pulled Elle back into his chest, wrapping his arms around her in an uneasy embrace. She was tense, so tense that he could feel the electricity crackling just below the surface of her skin, but as he stroked her hair and held her tighter she allowed herself to relax. He whispered "It's okay... it's all going to be fine," into her ears until her tears finally dried and her eyelids began drooping sleepily, at which point he led her to the couch and laid her gently down onto the cushions. He sat in the matching recliner, and he watched the soft sunlight elucidate the pretty features of her face as the dawn crept in through the living room windows.

Peter could count on one hand the things he knew about Elle Bishop. She had never been swimming, she had never ridden a roller coaster, and she had never been on a real date. And now, he knew, that she was still just as vulnerable as he was.


	3. Chapter 3

When they woke together the next morning, the sun was already casting buttery golden rays around them. The phone had started ringing, and Elle reluctantly rose first, clutching the fleecy throw from the couch, and examined the caller ID. Peter heard her mutter something as she lifted the phone from its cradle and set it back down.

"Who was that?"

"Work. I'm already late."

"So you're not going to go?"

Elle yawned and turned her head sharply, the bones in her neck cracking emphatically. "I don't know about you, but I didn't sleep too well last night."

Peter sat up straighter in the chair he'd dozed off in. "Cup of coffee?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, blinking the sleep from her eyes and smacking her lips, scratching her hips where the waistband of her pants chafed as she slept. Her hair was knotted and stringy, her face pallid and puffy from lack of sleep. Silhouetted by a halo of morning sunshine, Peter thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

But it was a fleeting thought in a fleeting moment, and he immediately pushed it from his mind. He got up and went to the kitchen and started a pot of brew, although Elle never answered him. She followed him into the kitchen as he rinsed out two mugs in the sink.

"I'm sorry I was such a basket case last night," she whispered so low he almost didn't catch her words.

He paused and sighed, watching the coffee drip at its painfully slow but steady pace. He heard her drag a chair away from the table to sit down before he poured a serving of coffee for each of them. When he set the mugs down on the table, she reached for hers before he pulled his hand away, and in the brief moment they touched a spark darted from her fingertips to his.

"Accident, sorry," Elle said quickly as Peter pulled his hand away.

"No, that's - that's okay," he told her just as fast.

They sat in silence a little while longer, the coffee losing its heat as it sat in front of both of them, ignored.

"Should I leave?" she asked.

He wanted to say "Stay as long as you like." He wanted to say "You're always welcome here." He wanted to say "I want you - I want you to stay."

Instead he said "Where would you go?" and sipped his coffee with feigned nonchalance.

"You don't have to worry about me," she replied. "I'd find somewhere." Her voice was tenuous but her eyes were averted, and he could tell she was faking it. He wondered if she could tell he was faking it, too - this indifference to one another, this apathy, this insouciance.

When Peter didn't answer, Elle gulped down her coffee and said plainly, "I can have my things packed in an hour or two."

She buzzed around the apartment, picking up a few things here and a few things there, tossing them haphazardly into kitchen trash bags, as they were handy and large, and she had no luggage of her own. He was stunned by her silence; he wished she'd at least say something inane, something prosaic and ordinary, to cut the tension, but he couldn't think of anything to say either. Each time she passed through the kitchen, he thought of the time he'd kissed her in his cell at Level Five, how it had made her spark and smile. He tried to calculate how long ago that had been, because he couldn't recall seeing her smile again since.

He was snapped out of his reverie when he heard the front door creak open, and his heart leapt when he realized what that sound meant. He jumped to his feet and dashed to the threshold, reaching out to grab Elle's arm before she made it too far. She dropped her things as he pulled her into an embrace. His hands held her waist and he pressed his lips against hers. She tilted her head back, allowing the kiss to deepen, and ran her hands through his hair.

"Wait," she gasped, turning her head to breathe. "Does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?" Peter asked, almost smiling.

Elle gently traced the wound on Peter's face. He closed his eyes and relished her touch, sighing deeply as her fingertips passed over his nose and his lips.

"It hurts a little," he admitted. "But it's a good kind of hurt."

She smiled, and he felt lucky to catch it - it lit up her face more than a spark, more than a shock, more than a thousand volts of electricity ever could.

They found themselves back in his apartment, back in his bedroom, back in his bed. They pulled off one another's clothes, they fell into the blankets with one another, wrapped up in the warmth of their nakedness together. They laughed, they smiled, they whispered delicate secrets to one another, and they kissed a thousand times.

Her unclothed body was like her written biography; each mark, each scar told a story about her. Some she could recall with laughter and enthusiasm; others were more ambiguously explained away. There were a few she genuinely couldn't remember, the stories behind them lost completely. Although now he had an indelible mark on his face, his body was not the same; he'd suffered no major trauma in his charmed life, and healing instantly left no stories on him. This disparity was just another reminder that while he had been virtually indestructible, she was still thing that could be broken.

And then Peter realized that he would go to great lengths to treat her as such.


End file.
